


Bold Gryffindor, Bravest of the Four

by justawordwright



Series: Tales of the Founders [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10th Century, Anglo-Saxon, Basque!Salazar, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hogwarts Founders Era, Norse!Helga, Saxon!Godric, Vikings, Welsh!Rowena
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justawordwright/pseuds/justawordwright
Summary: War ravages the lands. Invaded and nearly beaten, the Saxons fought back to a deadlock. Now, finally, the tides are turning.Godric stands abreast it all, Lord and Commander of their armies. He has given much for this, and would give even more. For duty, for a love of the land and its people.But as England's enemies slowly topple, she threatens to turn on herself. Divisions grow, new battle-lines are drawn and in the midst of it, magic. Now, alliances must be forged afresh, enemies forced friends and in these desperate times, they can only make legends.





	Bold Gryffindor, Bravest of the Four

**Author's Note:**

> So this has come out of a love for both HP and the pre-Conquest era in Britain (800AD-1066AD), and my complete obsession with trying to fit the two together. This very rapidly proved impossible as Rowling makes some very basic mistakes, so this will be AU, but as marginally as possible as I've gone with history over Rowling (makes the plot much more interesting, in fact it has practically plotted itself); mainly its slightly different names, people coming from slightly different places or events occurring in a slightly different order/way. Nothing huge.
> 
> There is the occasional smattering of Old English, mainly for names and spells but also where there isn't a sufficiently good modern equivalent. These should be sufficiently explained in the text, but there's also a glossary in the notes at the end. As a quick note, 'Ð' is pronounced as 'th' (like 'THis') and 'Æ' as a long 'a' (like 'cAt') but you can just think 'D' and 'Ae' instead.
> 
> Feedback would be much appreciated -- is the summary good enough? is all the world building follow-able? etc.

When Godric first met Salazar, it was knelt before a Muggle King.

There were other wizards there too of course — Godric’s fellow magical Ealdormen in their bright robes of dyed wool and printed silk, heads bowed and knees bent. Old Hengist was rightmost, leant heavily on his staff and wheezing, the wrinkles of his face shifting with every laboured breath; it would not be him but his son Herebryht that would lead his troops when they marched, Godric knew, but Hengist still spoke, and spoke words with a weight from age and experience no other man in the hall could match, so Ealdorman he was still. And Godric was glad to have him.

Between Hengist and Godric were the young cousins Ægelbriht of Haradtún and Cynewulf the Red, who shifted restlessly as the King talked. They’d been at Farnham with Godric nine years before, fighting the Danes far too brashly and recklessly — diving into the Danish lines alone and having to be dragged out every time they were swarmed and surrounded — and Godric smiled at the thought of fighting by them again. They were warriors. Courage couldn’t be taught, caution could.  

Then finally was Siwulf, knelt at Godric’s left, his hands clasped at his breast and a distant look in his eyes. Godric had not known what to think of him before he met him — there were too many rumors of his weakness and apathy towards violence — but he’d found the man one of the deadliest he’d ever met in the years he’d known him. It wasn’t that he was weak or a pacifist, rather he prefered justice and an absolute belief that violence was needed before he’d act and then spells and curses would drop from his lips with a lethal fury few could match. The calm gaze hid decades of study of the art of war and his hands applied harshly and quickly, judgement falling as needed but never in extreme.   

In all they were the strongest, wisest and most skilled wizards —  _ drý _ — that Eadweard, King of Wessex, had within his lands, brought together to advise him and lead his armies. Together, they were a sight few could match. One _ none _ should match.

Yet Godric had eyes only for the stranger who marched in, strutting down the long hall and ignoring the gathered Ealdormen. Tall and slim, his coppery skin was swathed in long rolls of billowing fabric that swung so low as to trail the floor, sending up little puffs of dirt where the beaded corners knocked against the ground. Long black hair swirled down his back and tickled at his eyebrows, bold angled things that sat prominently above constantly sweeping eyes and a tight-lipped mouth.  _ Salazar Slíca _ he introduced himself as — Salazar the clever, the cunning, the silver tongued… Salazar who laughed brazenly at Eadweard’s plans and then bartered for the loan of his men’s wands.

And Eadweard listened. He let Salazar haggle and make his demands. Let him treat himself as an equal of the King. Godric hissed. This was wrong, this was _ blood money.  _ Blood money and extortion. The men he and his Ðegns rose would be payed but it was a wage, justly given and earned, the law-given reward for their service. They didn’t exploit the King like Salazar, didn’t take advantage of Æthelwold’s rebellions — Eadweard’s cousin angered at being overlooked for the crown twice and now stirring up King Eiríkr of East Anglia’s Danes  to raid and plunder Wessex — to wring every silver penny out of a man protecting his people.

Godric wanted to say something. Anything. He had to call Salazar out, he couldn’t let the King be cheated like this.

Only he couldn’t, because this was the King’s Hall, under the King’s Peace and the King wasn’t protesting. Eadweard looked frustrated and increasingly flustered as Salazar drove as high as he could, as the priests and Bishops and Ðegns and Ealdormen behind him muttered but he didn’t send Salazar out. The men were needed — too needed — for when the Saxons would cross the Themes and fight the Danes and their witches, the vile  _ hægtessa _ .

So no, Godric couldn’t do anything, not here, not in the King’s Hall.

He could outside though.

His fingers twitched at his wand as he waited. The old wood was smooth, polished by years of use and it sung under his hand as he fumed, waiting for Eadweard and Salazar to finish. By the time they did and Eadweard released the drýas before him, the wand was practically sparking with his anger.

Salazar was quick to leave, striding out of the hall with as much confidence as he’d entered it. Hengist and Siwulf were next, Siwulf shooting Godric a dirty glance as he passed. Then, though, he was free to stand, pulling Ægelbriht and Cynewulf up and after Salazar.

They cornered him by the outhouses, wands in hand. Salazar spun as they surrounded him, his eyes tightening as he came to face Godric. 

“So, what can I do for you then, oh-so-venerable Ealdormen?” Salazar asked.

“You greedy little rat!” Godric growled, spittle catching at his lips, because why was Salazar asking this? Wasn’t the reason for their anger obvious? “Harrying the  _ King _ for money!”

The mercenary sneered as Godric finished, “Then what would you have me do? Fight and die for free? Make my men do it too?” 

“Not for free, but for an honourable amount—”  

But before Godric could finish, Salazar was interrupting him, laughing and mocking him. “Honour?” he asked, “You deign to condescend to me about honour, _Godric_ _Mægslaga!”_

_ Mægslaga. _

_ Brother-slayer _ .

That was what Salazar had named him.

And he remembered —  _ Godræd dead by his wand. _ Not what he’d wanted, not what he’d intended, but what people had thought he had.  _ Jealous, greedy and ambitious _ was what they’d said, and believed even as he denied it;  _ arrogant _ and  _ stupid _ he had been but never the other three, not like Salazar thought — and acted too, laughing in his face, leering and sneering — and he felt his disgust curdle, rapidly turning to loathing and abhorrence. 

He saw Ægelbriht and Cynewulf shifting in the corners of his eyes, uneased by Salazar’s accusation, as they should be. He had to act quickly. He had to act now. He squared his shoulders, made sure his chin was up and unblinkingly stared down his accuser. “I made  _ bot _ as King Ælfrēd decreed, and the matter is ended.”

It wasn’t enough, though. Salazar still preened and though Ægelbriht and Cynewulf had settled slightly, there were still twin looks of repulsion in their eyes. It was much worse seeing their abhorrence of him — Salazar he could hate, but the cousins were friends, allies and brothers-in-arms and he was so used to their admiration, their respect that he couldn’t bear it. 

He  _ should _ be repugnant and  _ wrong _ , as bad, if not worse than Salazar, but Ælfrēd had not claimed his life and then had even lain honours at his feet. How could he explain that? How could he tell them he had become Ðegn and then Ealdorman after killing his own brother, the rightful heir? 

He couldn’t.

Instead he turned on his heel, thinking of home and letting the magic tear him away from those terrible looks. There in his Hall was his wife Ailred with her tender embraces and kisses and those big forgiving eyes. She knew what to say when he felt like this — never pushing, never forcing him to talk about the thing he didn’t want to, but still easing the pain somehow — and by the time they were ready to settle, curled up under the soft, heavy rugs and skins he almost felt relaxed and content.

Until his brain had to scream  _ coward _ at him, because he’d run away again, hadn’t he? 

The next days were spent travelling through his Shire, rallying Eadweard’s call of the Fyrd to fight to his Ðegns and men. Normally he would have called them to his Hall and told them there but he couldn’t face them, not together. He didn’t want to be outnumbered, however weak and pitiful that sounded. Though, as he could apperate and most of them couldn’t, it did save them the journey to Slædhàm. That was a better excuse — a logical and economical action to undertake. And it helped him lock away the memories of his brother falling bloodied and mauled before finally he succumbed under Godric’s wand because he couldn’t remember now, not when Wessex marched to war, not when he had to wonder which of the men he called off his land were being sent to their deaths. They wouldn’t all return, that was certain. Aged men with decades of service and young ones who were receiving the call for the first time, they’d fall alike and never return, their bodies buried in an enemy land.

The young ones in particular.

And that included Oswald — Ailred’s brother Inguc’s son, and Godric’s nephew by marriage. Fifteen and not even finished his studies — his  _ tryht _ —  he was supposed to be too young to serve but Inguc couldn’t fight — not with a wand-arm lost to the Danes — and it wouldn’t be long before he was expected to fulfil his father’s Fyrd-duty in his stead as a Ðegn, a second-in-command to Godric as Ealdorman. So better he be blooded now, when Godric could protect and guide him if he panicked then when he had men relying on him, Ailred had said and Godric agreed. He just wished it had been something smaller — a Viking raid to end or a wild man-killer to hunt down — and not Eadweard’s invasion of East Anglia. Oswald was flushed with pride at the thought of serving his Ealdorman but he was still just a boy, one who stumbled in his teenage growth-spurts and pouted as he imagined others laughing at him, and there was far too much that could go wrong, far too much. This was war. An invasion, a clash of armies again and again until one broke utterly. So much more than a minor skirmish and even those could so easily go wrong. 

Had gone terribly wrong.

Still Oswald fitted in when they made muster. The ordinary men were shy about him — the farmers and crafters awkward about the boy who would eventually own the land that they lived off; who rode with a shirt of maille on his back, a helm on his head, and wand, sword and seax at his side and spear in hand while they just managed spear and shield at best; him tall and lean and sun-kissed from a life of magic and play-fighting while they were burly and stooped and wind-bitten from the plow and workbench. The Ðegns though, they sat him at their campfires at told him stories and poems of great battles and heroes. Godric was thankful to realise that it gave him a way of courteously avoiding Ægelbriht and Cynewulf at night; Salazar wasn’t a problem, he and his raggle-taggle band of mercenaries only ever camped on the outmost reaches of the Fyrd, barely talking to the Saxons and the few times Godric had crossed Salazar when they met with Eadweard the mercenary had scowled, turning his nose up at Godric and strutting away. He did enjoy it as well though, seeing Oswald’s face light up as he heard of heroes like Beowulf and Hengest and Horsa and afterwards, he was pestered with questions from Oswald of what he’d get to do — when he’d get to fight in the shield-wall, whether he’d get to join the forays behind the enemy lines or the great charges in battle.

That changed once they crossed the Thames. Now in Danish territory, suddenly there were ghostly figures lurking in shadows everywhere Oswald looked and at night the campfires were surrounded by grim faces silently cleaning, checking and rechecking their arms and armour. Godric tried to spend as much of their marches as he could with the boy but he couldn’t avoid his duties — patrolling the column and scouting, his disillusionment charms hiding him far better than the non-magical scouts could manage — and he noticed that when he returned Oswald was often pale faced, clutching at his wand and shaking under his maille. 

He wasn’t angered or disappointed by Oswald’s fear but going for his wand, Godric reminded him, gently rebuking him, wasn’t honourable — they don’t use magic against the  _ mænelic _ , the non-magicals, so he should go for his sword or spear first, he could cast with them if he needed to, but he couldn’t hack or slash with a wand. Other than that though, he tried to reassure his nephew, promising him as he’d promised Ailred that he wouldn’t let him come to any harm and that none of his Ðegns would either.  

Godric hated to remember the same promise that had been made to him more than two decades previously.

Their first battle came a week into the Danish lands. The going had been slow — the land too boggy and marshy for the Fyrd to move quickly, forcing the men to weave down the thin, winding paths of the swamps as the ground churned under the heavy boot-falls of hundreds, thousands of warriors, turning to mud and alternating between being treacherously slick and sending men tumbling into the waters, to being thick and claggy, clinging to everything that touched it and colouring the men a dull, homogenous brown. A fine white frost had begun to scatter across the ground during the night too, as winter started to set in and so did the longer nights, forcing every day’s march to be shorter than the one before. They’d barely made a dozen miles headway before they were caught by a Danish patrol and battle was imminent.

As soon as the Danes scouts were spotted, Eadweard ordered the shield-wall prepared. Movement in the marching column ground to a halt as the men pulled weapons from sheaths and muttered prayers for their lives. The Ealdormen were shouting themselves hoarse, bellowing at their men to get themselves in position so that the battle-line of the shield-wall could be made as soon as they faced the Danes.  Godric rushed his men to Beocca — a mænelic Ealdorman who held the Shire south of his — for command and then pulled Oswald to the very rear of the column. He himself was to command a group of drýas, weaving the spells to protect the Fyrd from the hægtessa and their attempts to curse it, or flank it by apparation; he’d specifically requested it of Eadweard to ease protecting Oswald and the King had graciously granted his request.

The drýas were already busy casting when they reached them, their experience of dozens of wars making the necessary spells near automatic. Godric let them continue and knelt by Oswald, sliding the boy’s wand from the sheath at his belt and pressing into his hand as Oswald gave him a confused look.

“But I thought we don’t use our wands to fight?” he asked.

“Only if we’re fighting mænelics. We’ll be dealing with the hægtessa, however,” Oswald flinched as Godric mentioned the Danish witches. There were many stories of them told, of how they could strike a man down with a single look and stalked the night, looking for babies to eat. “It’ll be okay though. Remember I promised. You just need to cast the anti-apparation spell, you remember that don’t you?”

Oswald nodded. “ _Hic hostis, non potest meus_. _Te_ _aedificare muros sine porta. Quia nihil intrare non sinunt._ ”

“Good.”

Godric smiled and together they fell into the column, which was just beginning to move again. They crept forward, following the track with nothing more than hushed commands disturbing the silence. Scrub-like trees scattered between the deep watery puddles blocked the light and cast the men into a flickering twilight. It would be midday in the open, but here it was dark and the air still and cold. The bird song had stopped as soon as the threat of battle started, the creatures fled from the imminent violence. It would return only after the fighting ended, when there was feed for the  crows; and even then the true songbirds would not come back till the carrion birds had feasted. 

They met the Danes on a thin stretch of dry land, an island in the swamp. The water spun away from them and the trees with it, replaced by the enemy and their banners. The Danes were out-numbered near twenty-to-one but the water held their flanks and as the Saxons responded to Eadweard’s cry, their shields slamming together to form the great shield-wall their line could be no wider than the Dane’s. Deeper, yes, but they could not swamp them with superior numbers, wrapping about their wall and crushing them.

The Saxon line slowly shuffled forwards. They were mostly quiet, save for the rattle of weapon and shield but the line stayed straight as it moved towards the Danes and it didn’t slow. The Danes didn’t move but did their best to drown out the steady beat of the Saxon feet, stamping their own and banging on their shields as they shouted boats and threats. There was a common chant beneath it all, rising as the Saxons got closer, as the battle did too.

“ _ Ut. Ut.Ut,”  _ they shouted, _ “Out. Out.  _ **_Out!_ ** ”

Until the Saxons fell on them with an unholy roar. The chant stopped, because now it was the crash of spear on shield and sword on axe and the cries of the damned and dying, as the Danes and Saxons fought, pressed tight against each other in the fray and battling to survive.

Godric stood in the rear, surrounded by his drýas and Oswald, face screwed up in fear and concentration, and the determined, ceaseless chant of the wards they wove around their army. He felt his lips slowly numb, and his wrist and fingers cramp around his wand as he built his wall of magic up again and again, as the hægtessa tried to pull it down. Theirs was a rabid, frenzied magic, clawing at his spells, pounding at his mind, and as soon as he threw off one attack, it was back again, screaming at him, tearing at him, ripping and rending. Nothing like the cold, calm and calculated but utterly lethal work of the Saxons.

The magic — his fight —  _ became everything _ , his entire world. The men stumbling back from the front lines, staggering, clutching at their injuries; the calls and commands of the Ealdormen and the Ðegns; the screams and wails and victorious shouts; the stench of fear and blood-lust — they were all lost in the haze, blocked from his mind and branded distractions. He barely noticed the first juddering steps of the shield-wall forward. The cries of the charge were ignored, the shouts as one shield-wall buckled. There was nothing to think of but the magic.

_ The magic was All. Everything. Cast and cast and cast again and beat the Danes _ .

And he did, until finally, finally it stopped. The Danes and their hægtessa were done, the men routed and fleeing from the chasing Saxons. In their wake were left the dead and the dying, the thick carpet of bodies that coated the blood-soaked ground. Most were Danish, but there were Saxons mixed in too and already men were grimly picking through them, hunting for friends and comrades, desperate to find them alive and healable. Most though became hunched shadows in the gloomy shade, crouched by the fallen.

Godric had to join them, had to see how many of his own men were lain there. He would need to deal with the corpses — burying them as the Christians they were, but quickly, before they had to move on. It would be a rushed job, but it would be properly done.       

As he wove through the corpses, Oswald followed, paling at the thick metallic tang of the blood. It cut through all the other smells of the battlefields — sharp and salty and just everywhere. The men it came from were moaning, and the arriving crows were joining in too, filling the world with their sorrowful duet — the men quiet, low and long and the crows loud and shrill. Under foot, Godric could feel the sharpness of riven maille pressing through his shoe-soles and adding a near-silent metallic rattle to the death-music as the rings slid against each other.

He spotted Salazar scouring the corpses, wand out. He hadn’t seen Salazar in the shield-wall’s ranks, and hadn’t seen him in the rear either. A non-combatant then, or a coward Godric wondered. He couldn’t go hunting trouble though, not with Oswald here, and turned away from the mercenary instead, finding a spot where he couldn’t see the man.

The first body he recognised was one of the men he'd called up personally —  _ Deor Eorðtilia  _ he remembered _ ; freeman, farmer, husband and father _ he told Oswald. And then he moved on. He did the rites as needed — closing the eyes, clasping the hands and saying a prayer for the soul — and called one of the men clearing the bodies away to add him to the graves, but then he went on, looking for the rest of his men.

The list of his dead grew, but not by too much. Ten, maybe fifteen of his men. Less than a hundred overall. It was far less than it could have been, the cairn they spelled over the burial pit barely broader than it was tall. He was still glad to finish though, to see Beocca and get new orders.

The Ealdorman had just finished speaking with the King when Godric found him. There was blood smeared across his maille, dulling the metal and it was not just Danish blood, for there was a thick band of it trickling out from under his scarlet hair. He tried to smile though, when he saw Godric.

“We caught most of the runaways — they’ll already have alerted Æthelwold and Eiríkr but they won’t know anything but where we crossed in,” he said brusquely, his eyes dark. “There’s a village a few hours march along the path from here. We’re headed there next.”

They arrived the next morning to discover the place little more than a farm with a scattering of outbuildings. The Danes spotted them as they came but it did little to help them as hundreds of Saxons poured out of the tree line. Their men were dead and their allies couldn’t reach them. The women and children fought as they could, pitchforks and knives and broken swords in hand but they were slaughtered where they stood and their homes lit ablaze as they died. The few they left alive were bound, to be taken back to work on Saxon farms. Bound as theows, both bounty and retribution, their blood and freedom the price of Æthelwold’s pride, of Eiríkr’s greed. 

Done, the Saxons marched on, plumes of smoke choking the air as they left. 

Onwards and into Danish lands.

The country burned behind them, the frost-bitten ground plowed by sword stroke and sown with bone and blood. They hunted settlements and killed or stole every Dane that stood against them, whether man, woman or child. They battled in the great shield-walls, man pressed against man and then Godric led the drýas protecting the Fyrd by wand, Oswald by his side; they fought skirmishes in the villages where individual men battled by themselves for their lives in the narrow streets as they sought to escape the flames and then Godric let Oswald loose his sword. He took his first kill, hewing an axeman from hip to nipple with the bright steel. There was a celebration that night, Godric’s Ðegns gifting Oswald with new songs of his fight and mead and meat and celebrations.

Eventually though, it became harder. The houses they found were empty, the people long  gone before the threat of the Fyrd. The Danish food stores they raided to eat were destroyed, spoiled to starve the Saxons. Hunger spread through the Fyrd, even as discontent and fear bubbled up. The Danes weren’t fleeing, they were gathering, waiting to join with Æthelwold and Eiríkr, to fight the Saxons when they had the numbers, the advantage, when they could be certain of victory.

Godric hated the waiting. It was snowing and the Danes used the landscape to their advantage, steering the Fyrd to battles that disadvantaged them. They weren’t even fighting to beat them, to drive them off, they were just holding them, waiting for the main army to arrive and deliver the crushing blow. And it was always shield-walls now, where he had to stay in the rear, stay with Oswald and cast spells. His men were in front of him, he could see them dying and he could do nothing to help them. He was useless. Cowardly. Letting others risk their lives as he stayed safe. Pitiful.

Like Salazar. Salazar who did nothing but skulk through the already defeated corpses when the battle was already done. Salazar who didn’t stand by his men, didn’t lead them in the charge, didn’t risk his life with theirs.

Weak. Dishonourable. Unworthy.

Eventually, he snapped. The next battle, Godric swapped places with Siwulf, sending the other Ealdorman to the rear with Oswald, while he joined the shield-wall himself. There was a spear in his hand again and a sword at his hip, ready for use. His men pressed at his shoulders, stood firm and unbending. He protected them, and they himself. A hundred men, one wall, one Fyrd. They marched together as one, the men locked together as one. They met the Danes as one, the shockwave of the first contact setting them shuddering.

He could see the whites of their eyes behind their helms, could smell the salt fish on their breath. Their spears rose and fell into his men, pulling back dripping with bright red blood. The Saxons replied with the same.

Godric breathed and fought. One breath and he blocked a spear shot to his left. Another and he thrust up into the now open armpit of the Dane. The spear twisted as it went in, sliding through flesh until it juddered against bone. He tore it out as he filled his lungs again, looking for his next move. A curse was caught, it's counter spat out. He threw a second back as he spotted the culprit. The woman staggered as the magic hit her shield, her attention snapping onto him. Another spell started at her lips.

It never met him.

A scream rose from behind him. Raw and guttural, it tore through the rattle of battle as the drý it was ripped from fell, his fight lost.

The booming **_crack_** of apparation followed in the calm, the Danes seizing their opportunity and piling in behind the Saxon lines. Their weak, unprotected rear. Their drýas.

_ Oswald _ .

Godric ripped himself from the shield-wall. The hole he left didn’t matter. That he left his comrades vulnerable didn’t matter.  _ Oswald  _ was back there, there where the Danes were rushing in _.  _ He had a promise to keep.

His spear was discarded, dropped as he turned, his sword drawn. His wand was in reach. Not to be used yet though. Just the sword. He charged towards the rear, barely registering the others that followed. He couldn’t see Oswald; couldn’t see Siwulf or any of his drýas, they were buried under a sea of Danes. Bright maille and blue cloaks swarmed everywhere Godric looked.

He closed to within arm’s reach of his first Dane. His sword lifted, his voice echoing its song as it fell. The Dane twisted as he heard; Godric caught no more than the barest glimpse of straw-blond hair before it bloomed red, the sword shearing through skin and bone. The Dane staggered and Godric shoved at him, forcing him down with his shield. He hit the floor and crumpled, a lifeless corpse.

Godric stepped over it.

The melee continued. Godric gradually forced his way through, hacking at any Dane that came too close, but never stopping, never slowing. A strike put in where he could, a block where needed, but always, always moving forward. As he continued, the fighting became more and more fractured, pairs struggling in their solitary, personal conflicts, and as he reached the first drýas, suddenly it wasn’t just Saxons at his back and Danes under his sword but a swirling, seething mess of Saxon and Dane that spun and fought, near indistinguishable in the roaring rush of battle, bar from their helms and shield-colors.

Not the women though — they were Danes solely, the  _ hægtissa  _ in their woad-blue shawls and with their wands in hand. They wove through the battles, wrapping their magic about themselves and sending snarling bursts out at the nearest Saxons.

One of them was stood over Oswald. They were right at the fringe of the battle, so Godric had to claw his way through the entire fight, but she was stood there, over his nephew’s body. His writhing, twitching, moaning body.    

Godric felt his magic burning, itching for him to release it with his rage. He spat out a curse, freeing it and sending it hurtling towards the hægtissa. She didn’t flinch as the magic splashed against her shield, but hissed as she realised his spell hadn’t dispersed but was drilling through her defences.

“ _Forswælan!_ _Swenge āc ábiern āc ásmore āc ácwele!_ ” 

He let the fire flow through him, the bright flame washing across the ground as it writhed towards her, twisting into great coils as it surrounded her, then tightening so as to crush her. The magic seared as he released it, the metal of his sword forge-hot and setting his hand blistering even as it fell from his fingers. He quickly drew his wand, held clumsily in his left hand; the hægtissa was too busy with his spell to worry him though and he could rush, finally, to Oswald’s side.

“Uncle?”

Oswald blinked as Godric knelt over him, brushing his nephew’s sweat-and-blood sodden fringe from his eyes. They were cloudy and unfocused, his skin clammy. He was losing blood, fast. Too fast. Godric felt himself reaching down, teasing apart his nephew’s sticky fingers and burying his hand in the wet mess of Oswald’s belly. Bad. This was bad. Oswald’s eyes were flickering shut, his breath fluttery and weak.

His nephew was dying.  _ Like Godræd. _

He had to think. He didn’t have long. There was a spell… he just had to remember it.

He pulled himself up. He couldn’t get this wrong.  _ Not again _ . Oswald would not die.

Not this time.

So remember. He had to remember. 

His hands were too warm in the cold, the blood oozing through his fingers. 

_ Melius est... _

Was that how it started?

_ Melius vulna caro et os...  _

The sleeves of his tunic were clinging damply to his skin. Oswald was writhing under him. 

_ Melius vulna caro et os; et impleat vitum… _

He pressed down harder, holding his nephew together.

_ Melius vulna caro et os; et impleat vitum; ligant animo et mente... _

No. Almost. Wrong, stupid.

_ Melius vulnus caro et os; et impleat vita; et ligaveris eum in anima et mentis. _

Yes, that was it. 

His wand was in his off-hand, roughly held, but it would have to do. Focused, he brought the magic to mind and pictured Oswald, well and healed. Prepared himself and opened his mouth, ready to cast. Felt the words forming on his tongue, his wand twitching with the start of a sweep.

“Don’t.”

Godric felt the touch on his shoulder and stopped, surprised. He looked up... and saw Salazar. Calm and unbloodied and collected. “You—”

“Are here to help,” Salazar spoke quietly, lifting his wand and brushing Godric’s own aside. “You haven’t remembered the spell, not correctly, you’d only hurt him more.”

“—How— I didn’t—”     

Didn’t matter really, because he had been wrong.

Wrong.

He’d almost killed his nephew, like he had killed his brother.

Salazar had saved him, Salazar who hushed him and leaning over Oswald, waving his wand and muttering, and slowly Oswald’s groaning stopped, the boy stilling and relaxing until he lay almost peacefully. One quick spell from Salazar and Oswald was healed; the tear  in his guts closed, the blood banished from his tunic with a flick of Salazar’s wand. Godric could see the steady rise of the boy’s chest and the smooth, unblemished skin of his belly through the torn wool. No mark left where the curse had chewed through flesh and gut.

Oswald was okay. 

He would live. He was living. Not dead. Not again.

He was going to have to thank Salazar. Damn.

But Oswald was alive.

“Get him off the field,” Salazar stood, looking at the melee, past Godric. The fighting was shifting back to the mainline, as the Saxons started retreating, having rushed to crush the flanking Danes only to lose the main battle due to their reduced numbers. “I have others to tend to.”

Godric nodded silently as Salazar walked off. There were men hurrying past them, fleeing. He had to follow, the Danes would be coming and it would be a massacre if they were caught. He flicked his wand, Oswald rising under it, hovering unsteadily and then started walking.  

His sword was gone, along with his spear and his shield and Oswald’s wand. He couldn’t fight and hadn’t healed his own nephew. He was useless. He  _ owed _ Salazar. His nephew was breathing though and his sword was still in it’s scabbard. Not all was lost. Oswald was alive. He didn’t have tell Inguc that he had gotten his son killed with his stupidity.

Because it  _ was _ his fault. He had been stupid and pig-headed and too desperate for a fight.  _ He’d  _ left Oswald by himself. He should have known what would happen, it wouldn’t be the first time his blood-lust had gotten someone hurt.  _ Someone killed _ .

He should have remembered Godræd.

He should have kept his promise. Godræd had. He had died in order to. Godric had killed him, and had been about to do the same to Oswald if Salazar hadn’t stopped him.

He should have done better. He should have remembered.

Oswald bobbed by his side as he marched on, following the men in front of him as they trudged through the woodland. It was hours later that they stopped, Godric wasn’t sure exactly how many but he had counted it in the thousands of silent breaths of the boy beside him. He was alive. The clearing that Eadweard chose slowly filled with the mess of his army, lighting fires and licking their wounds. 

Godric was quickly approached by his Ðegns, wanting answers on where he had disappeared to when his men were dying. They quieted when they saw Oswald, limp and wrapped in Godric’s cloak, and Godric’s still bloodstained hands. They were still angry though, even if they tried not to show it he saw it in their faces, in the stiffness of their not-frowns and their gruff condolences. 

None of them offered him a new sword. He didn’t deserve one. They knew that. He knew it.         

It was almost morning when Oswald awoke. Godric was fussing at their campfire, prodding it with his wand and trying to make it burn hotter when he heard Oswald stir.   

“Oswald?” he placed Oswald’s hand in his, the fingers were cold but the boy’s palm radiated warmth in his own. He was getting better. “How are you?”

“Tired. Sore. I—” Oswald spluttered and fell silent. Godric stroked his thumb across the boy’s forehead, waiting for him to be able finish. “You saved me, didn’t you? I knew you would.” Oswald smiled.

Why did he have to ask that. It was a reasonable question, but it was wrong, he hadn’t. He had only hurt Oswald; Salazar had healed him.

And he couldn’t lie.

“No, Salazar did,” Godric said and Oswald’s smile faltered. “I did not know how to.”

It was close enough. Not a lie, just the truth pruned vigorously. Oswald did not need to know how close he had come to death under Godric’s wand.

“Salazar, ” Oswald rolled the name across his tongue, sounding it out quietly. “It must have been hard if you didn’t know how to do it.”

“Yes.”  

Godric nodded. How hard it was intrinsically he wasn’t sure, but healing magic had never been his strong point — he had never worked as hard at it as he should have, being too focused on the magic of combat. It had seemed pointless — if he was a good enough warrior he wouldn’t be injured and he wouldn’t need to heal himself. He ought to have learnt the first time around that it wasn’t for  _ him  _  that he was to study it. He hadn’t.

Oswald was looking thoughtful, his eyes creased at their corners, the edges of his lips pulling down. Or nervous — he wasn’t looking at Godric. Pointedly. “Do you think he’d teach me to do it? Salazar, that is.”

“Salazar?” Godric tried to keep his voice level. He hadn’t told Oswald about Salazar’s cowardice — was it cowardice if he stayed behind to heal, he wasn’t sure — but his nephew had obviously picked up on something, and was afraid to upset him. He might have, but Salazar was obviously better than healing then him and pleasing Oswald was more important than his pride anyway. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Oswald’s face lit up and Godric was pleased himself. Oswald was alive and happy, even if Salazar was involved. It was good.

Looking around the camp, Godric saw that the other men were rising, readying for the day’s hurried march. They needed to be ready to move; Oswald still wasn’t ready to walk, Godric would have to levitate him again instead so there was little preparation needed there but they both needed food and that meant returning to his men, whom he had no idea how they would react. The Ðegns had been angry the previous evening and would still be, the ordinary free-men he wasn’t sure of. 

In the end, the two of them managed to slip into the ranks without too much trouble, bar an encounter with Beocca who hunted Godric down with a spear and instructions to  _ 'make certain he actually used it, he had a duty to more than just his nephew, damn it.' _ It upset Godric more than he expected to see the other man turn away from him without another word, shame in his eyes.

The march at least was bearable and Godric spent most of it telling Oswald tales of dragon-fighters and trickster fae to keep his mind off the freshly-healed wound in his belly. The boy was mostly quiet throughout, aside from the occasional question on exactly what spell the hero had used or where things had happened; as the light started to fade though, he started asking whether Godric would be arranging his tuition that night, and wanting stories of  _ Salazar _ ’s exploits.

Godric was evasive on both points, though he knew he would have to follow through on the first if Oswald wasn’t to spend the next day sulking. He felt himself getting more nervous as Oswald kept prying; he had only met Salazar twice and neither time had been particularly pleasant. He was certain that another argument would be involved, or worse, that Salazar would try to be  _ nice _ , like the day before. He hadn’t met any of Salazar’s men either, the ones that had cost Eadweard so dearly, and what they were like or whether they were actually worth what Salazar had charged he had no idea. It was all uncertain, he didn’t know what to expect and thus he couldn’t prepare himself, just worry about what-ifs.

That night, Godric left Oswald in Beocca’s care and then made the trek to Salazar’s encampment. Winding between the campfires, he watched as the men turned their backs as he passed, their voices lulling as he approached and only returning as they disappeared into the smoky dusk behind him. He was still a pariah then. Beocca had at least taken his promise to  _ 'do better' _ and agreed to help; he had  _ also _ agreed that Oswald’s request was a good one.

And that Godric should be thankful for Salazar’s presence.

That remark had hurt, but Godric had left it — Beocca  _ was _ entitled to think that as Salazar  _ had _ saved Oswald. He couldn’t berate Beocca for stating the truth, especially when he was the only Ealdorman still speaking to him.

As he approached Salazar’s camp, Godric was aware that the campfires around him were waning, the scatters of bright orange fire behind him swapped for the bitter, ashy after-taste of cooling smoke on the wind and a solitary blue flame that burned out of the darkness in front of him, harsh enough on his eyes to force them to the ground where the light streaked ethereally across the rocks and dirt. There was laughter coming from around the blue fire, and the bubble of jubilant voices, though Godric could not tell what they were saying — the words were not spoken in soft Saxon or pious Latin that he might understand, still nor did he recognise the rolling of Norse or Danish that he wouldn’t. There may have been the lilting singsong tones of Welsh but if there were, they were well buried under the fullness and richness of the many other languages he heard but couldn’t name, their speakers taking every shade from ebony-black to ivory-white in skin, and hair that was golden and russet and raven.    

The voices stopped as he came to the huddle of men, it wasn’t the cold Saxon-style silence though but one of surprise at the interruption. The mens’ eyes flickered from Godric to about their circle, settling on a muscled, night-skinned man as he rose from his seat on the opposite side of the fire. 

“What do you want, Saxon?”

Godric bit his tongue at the insolence in the man’s voice. He was an  _ Ealdorman  _  and  _ Drý _ and it should have been obvious by his tunic — a deep wine-red and with Ailred’s careful stitches picking out the collar and cuffs in fine golden thread, so very unlike the basic sheep-grey garb of the speaker — he was a Ðegn, and an Ealdorman on top of that, appointed by the King. He was within his right to demand respect. 

Not that Godric would show annoyance, not when he was certain that the other man knew what he was doing. And not when the man held the key to what he needed that night — Salazar, and Salazar’s help and approval.

“I want to talk to Salazar,” Godric said instead, “is he here?”   

The man sniffed, his broad mouth twitching. “Who’s asking?”   

“Ealdorman Godric of Slædhàm.”

A murmer rose from the sitting men, and Godric tried to ignore it, staring at the speaker. Salazar must have told them about him, about the arrogant  _ mægslaga _ who had chided him for his wages. However, the other man didn’t say anything, even silencing the others with a sharp wave of his hand. 

When he did open his mouth, it wasn’t any human language that came out either, but a quiet whistling-hiss. It started low but rose in pitch and as it cut off sharply Godric heard a rustling in the grass behind him, another hiss answering the first. Something rubbed past his ankles, sliding smoothly over the leather of his shoes, the heavy weight taking several deep breaths before it passed; as the creature swept about the fire Godric caught a long, thin body covered in black scales that shone and reflected the firelight lively. The creature writhed around the circle, stopping by the man and creeping up his leg, coiling under his cloak and coming to rest, its sharp triangular head pressed against the man’s, its tongue flicking.             

The man hissed again, and this was a longer modulated one that went from shrill  to mellow, almost like he was talking to the snake who hissed back. Godric tried not to shiver as he heard the snake’s language coming from the man’s mouth, or even reach for the crucifix he hung around his neck.

_ Snake speaker _ , he thought, and realised that if this man was one and was calling for Salazaar, the mercenary must one too. Godric tried to squash the feeling of  _ wrongness _ at the hissing, his stomach twisting at the unnatural sounds. The most he allowed himself to do was let out a held breath as the pair finished and the snake disappeared into the night once more.

“Salazar will be here shortly,” the man shrugged and sat back down, returning to his conversation as the noise about the fire picked up once more.

So Godric found himself waiting awkwardly —  not invited to take a seat or talk he could only stand on the edge, watching the mercenaries. Thankfully, Salazar wasn’t long to appear, stepping silently out of the shadows, his already dark clothes darkened further by sweat and hiding him better in the night.

The snake was draped from Salazar’s shoulders, hissing contently. Godric watched as it raised its head, snapping at the moths in the air; when it caught one it almost purred with pride and preened as Salazar tickled it behind the jaw. “Osane,” he said and Godric supposed he must have caught him staring, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She won’t bite.”

Godric regarded him skeptically, keeping his hands clasped at his wand on his belt as Salazar stretched out a hand, Osane’s head nestled in his palm. Salazar waited a moment and then sighed.

“What do you want, Ealdorman? Dauid didn’t say.”    

“I want to apologise, I, well, um, I—” Godric stopped. This was as hard as he had expected, harder even he thought as Salazar peered at him curiously. “I was wrong when I accused you of greed. I am sorry, truly.

“And I want to thank you, for saving my nephew despite my previous words.”

Salazar hummed. “It is my job to heal the injured, I would not have ignored your nephew even if you had attacked me before. You looked like you wanted to.”

“I did,” Godric admitted quietly and Salazar seemed unfazed by the revelation, “though I am glad I didn’t now. I am sorry. I—”

“What do you  _ want _ , Ealderman Godric?”    

Salazar asked again, interrupting him and Godric fell uncomfortably silent. Salazar was  _ looking _ at him, or maybe through him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight just like Osane’s.

“Oswald wants you to you to teach him to heal.”

It was so quick to say once he just said it, only Salazar wasn’t answering and the silence weighed heavily. Godric’s face flushed and he stared at his feet, his fingers fumbling at the brooch at his shoulder. The large disc was silver and covered with fine niello work — images of animals inscribed into it, twisted together between delicate knotwork. It was a fine piece and had been a gift from Eadweard on his ascension and Godric had always been proud of it as it had also come with the confirmation of his continued status as Ealdorman but he spun it in his hands and then held it out to Salazar. “Payment if you’d teach him, please.”

Godric didn’t look up — he could imagine Salazar scowling or laughing and mocking him. He’d been an idiot to ask, Salazar wouldn’t teach a boy because a man that he considered a murderer, a kin-slayer, a  _ mægslaga _ had asked him to. No, it wouldn’t work, he’d just have to disappoint Oswald. Perhaps one of the other drý might be able to help, or even if Oswald had to wait, his Master would be able to when he continued his tryht. 

Oswald would learn to heal, even if Salazar wasn’t going to help. Godric would make certain of it and he wouldn’t forget Salazar’s refusal. 

Thus, Godric was surprised when the weight in his hands vanished, Salazar’s thin fingers plucking the brooch nimbly from Godric’s own. Godric’s gaze flickered up, seeing Salazar examining the brooch carefully, humming to himself as he did. After a while he stopped and slipped the brooch into a pouch hung from his belt.

“Your nephew is in no condition to learn at the moment and I am busy with the wounded, but once he is better I will teach him,” Salazar said, tapping at the pouch. “In two days I will send Dauid to check on him, then every evening after till he is well enough and then I will teach him.

“Now, if that is all, I have work to return to.”

With that Salazar turned on his heel, vanishing back into the night, returned to where ever he had come from. His words still rang in Godric’s ears though.

_ ‘I will teach him,’ _ Salazar had said,  _ ‘I will teach him.’ _

And he held true to his word — Dauid found his way to Godric’s camp two nights later and though Oswald still couldn’t walk, the man had stayed checked him over fully, even applying extra balms and spells to help him. Within the week, he was up and moving and Dauid had cleared him to start learning under Salazar and the next night Godric escorted Oswald to Salazar’s camp.

Salazar was there to greet them, welcoming Godric and showing him to a seat by the fire. Oswald was still where Salazar had left him, and Godric watched as he stood fidgeting with the wand Godric had lent him.

“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry,” Salazar whispered as he leant across Godric’s shoulder, reaching for a waterskin. He took a long draught and then pressed it into Godric’s hands, his mouth still tucked in Godric’s ear. “We won’t even leave your sight.”

“I want to be there,” Godric twisted to grab Salazar’s tunic as he tried to stand, “I want to see what you’re teaching him.”

“We won’t be doing any magic, just talking. I need to know what he’s already learnt.”

“Then when you do start!”

Salazar froze, a scowl flashing across his face. He let his face settle before replying though, his voice kept carefully level. “No. The lessons are for him only — that is what we agreed.

“You’ll wait here. Dauid will make sure of it.”

He gestured roughly to the man sat next to Godric; Dauid had been pleasanter in the previous week, probably as silver had been exchanged, but now he was as grim as the first day he had spoken down to Godric. There was a sword in his hand and a cloth in the other to clean it but now Dauid twisted the sword slightly, just enough to raise the point towards Godric. The threat was there. Dauid would happily gut him if he had to.

Salazar ripped Godric’s hand away and stalked back off to Oswald, leading him away by the arm. He was very careful about how he went — he took Oswald as far as he could, walking til they were little more than blurry shapes on the edges of the gloom and only stopping then. Godric could still see them though, and had seen how Salazar turned back to smirk at him every few paces. They sat down and Godric assumed that they were talking, though he couldn’t hear.

“Not used to losing, Ealdorman?”

Godric’s head snapped around. Dauid was grinning, and plucked the untouched water skin from Godric’s hands. He took a swig before passing it on to the next man in the circle. “You’re in good company to start.”

“No— Yes— I mean—”

Godric forced himself to stop — it was a trick, everything was the wrong answer. Dauid harrumphed and began introducing him to the men around him, trying to draw Godric into conversation. Godric ignored him, watching Oswald instead. He had no interest in talking to the mercenaries — he was here to look after Oswald, not to enjoy himself and after a while Dauid gave up, turning his back on Godric and starting up with the man next to him.

The fire in front of Godric didn’t burn down as he waited. It didn’t burn off anything, the translucent blue flames were magic and whenever they started guttering one of the men would prod at it with their wand or hand, muttering under their breath. Then it would burst back to life with a blistering heat. There was no pattern in which of the men did this as it changed each time it happened, the first man to notice just dealing with it. And there were a lot of men — far more than when Godric had visited the previous time, he’d counted maybe two-hundred, two-hundred-and-fifty the time before and there were easily an extra fifty tonight. How many men had Salazar brought? Was this it, or were there others? 

Because this wasn’t a warband, it was a small army.

Godric started paying more attention to the men — they were plainly dressed, their tunics undyed greys and creams or simple greens and yellows, their sides unadorned by weapons. But at their feet, brightly polished helms, wrapped swords and maileshirts nestled in bags by their seats, almost hidden from the firelight. Scars were worn across all the men, not obviously but proudly. Not ordinary warriors then. They were professionals — he’d known that, after all Eadweard had hired them but he’d hired them as  _ drýas _ , not the elite shock-troops these were. Godric didn’t have this many men of this quality, maybe even Eadweard didn’t.

How did Salazar then?

Godric shifted in his seat. Were they really trustworthy? Salazar could destroy the Fyrd if he switched sides at the right time — fighting the Danes in front and Salazar from behind, they’d be massacred. He wished he’d more than Beocca’s spear with him to fight; he’d still die if they decided to kill him but he might’ve taken a few down with him if he’d a sword and shield. 

And who was Salazar to be able to command these troops?       

He didn’t have long to worry about it though as Salazar reappeared shortly, Oswald behind him and bouncing with enthusiasm. Godric picked himself up, thanking Salazar and drew Oswald away from the camp. The blue fire had faded from view before he stopped but he still took his wand back, lighting the tip and scouring the ground around them before he started talking. He didn’t know if Salazar would have sent Osane to follow them but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“What happened?”

“We just talked,” Oswald shrugged and walked on, “I’ve got a load of new wand-motions to learn before we get onto actual spells— but, well, I’m not supposed to talk about it with you. Salazar made me promise.”

Oswald wouldn’t say any more and eventually Godric dropped it and they returned to their camp, not talking. The next morning, the pair roused and were speaking as if nothing had happened, even if Oswald surreptitiously avoided mentioning Salazar.

Godric made sure to find Beocca during the day’s march and to ask him what he knew of Salazar. It wasn’t much — Salazar had brought fifteen-score-and-ten men, or two-hundred-and-eighty warriors and thirty healers but he commanded far more than that; the others were in Frankia, Beocca thought, one of the Frankias. Godric thanked him and promised he wasn’t planning on causing trouble.

Over the next weeks, Godric and Oswald returned to Salazar’s camp most nights. Salazar was teaching Oswald now — teaching him magic, though that was all Oswald would say afterwards — while Godric had to sit at Salazar’s fire, Dauid looming over him like an overprotective guard dog.

No not a guard dog, a hunting hound — sharp eyed and poised to pounce or chase if Godric mis-stepped.

Still, Oswald was happy and thus Godric would put up his treatment and worrying about Salazar. He’d started taking Oswald to the medics’ work area to practise what he was learning, Godric allowed to trail after him, so long as he didn’t exceed the short leash Dauid had him on. He saw his nephew mending broken bones, healing cuts and dispelling curses. Doing what Godric couldn’t. Oswald was happy and so Godric was too.  

After a while, Salazar offered to let Oswald work with him during battle. It was a risk Godric was unwilling to take — he’d had Oswald held firmly in the rear so he could keep an eagle eye on him and he still didn’t fully trust Salazar but Beocca was pressuring him to do more and Oswald wanted to so Godric gave in. 

Thus, Oswald healed and Godric fought and it worked — Godric stood in the shield-wall, led sorties and raids and soon his Ðegns were talking to him again and a sword was found for him. It was battered and nicked all along the blade, but it was a sword and that was all that mattered; Oswald saved warriors, dozens of men coming and thanking him after battles and he laughed and smiled again as he hadn’t since the curse.

It was good.

The Fyrd was running, but it wasn’t running scared. They’d stopped heading deeper into East Anglia and started going sideways instead, heading back towards Saxon territory but through routes they hadn’t taken in the invasion. They were still fighting.

It was good.

Until it wasn’t.

The message came tearing down the line, the words followed by the crack of apparation wherever it passed a drý, the men not waiting to head to their companions’ aid.

_ The Kentish men absconded and fighting Æthelwold alone. _

Godric grabbed the men beside him, tearing them away with him as he hopped back along the track they had followed, hunting for the battle.

It was nearly finished by the time Godric found it and it was a bloodbath. Saxon corpses littered the ground, crows swooping down to pluck at their flesh. They cackled as they fed, the feathers in their wings rattling with every dive. There were black cloaks mixed in with the flock too, feeding on the dying rather than the dead, sucking their food from loose mouths; Godric drew his wand to deal with  _ them _ , summoning the bright silver shroud to cover the bodies.

He strode onwards, looking for someone to question, needing to know what had happened. Partway in something grabbed his ankle and he looked down to see Siwulf, blood trickling from his mouth too brightly against his pale face. He was dying. Godric leant down, pressing his ear to Siwulf’s mouth as he struggled to speak. These would be his last words.

“Tell Eadwerad…” the drý gurgled, “...Æthelwold… dead…”

Siwulf fell limp. Dead. Godric looked up and about him, saw the hundreds of men dead like him. Blood flowing like a river across the ground. Acrid smoke from the Danish pyres and the sickliness of roasting flesh. Red feathered birds cackling in the trees. 

Siwulf dead. Æthelwold dead.

The Fyrd decimated.

They had lost. Had won. One or the other. Both.

It was over. The invasion had ended and they were fleeing back to Wessex. 

It was over.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:
> 
> \- Ðegn: the single catch-all term for nobility in Anglo-Saxon England. Anyone who owns enough land to feed five families and raise five warriors for the Fyrd as well as having a Church and the ability to fulfil the duties to the crown can become one, so it is a semi-meritocracy. They have the duty to lead small groups of men to deal with issues on their lands.
> 
> \- Ealdorman: an additional rank granted to a limited number of Ðegns by the King. They form part of his advisoral council, command the Fyrd and will be in charge of governing a Shire, meting out justice for all that live there.
> 
> -Theow: a slave. 
> 
> \- Drý: a Saxon wizard.
> 
> \- Hægtessa: a derogatory term for Norse/Danish witches. They are monsters/bogeywomen in Saxon stories.
> 
> \- Mænelics: a non-magical
> 
> \- Fyrd: the Saxon Army. It is somewhere between a levy and a professional army, and similar to the Reserves- all free-men have to serve a specific time in it per year, and will also be paid for this.
> 
> \- Mægslaga: Kin-killer.
> 
> \- Tryht: training process for Saxon witches and wizards. 
> 
> \- Bot: a Saxon legal word. Has many meanings ranging from 'making peace' to 'paying compensation', compensation being the werguild, or the price Saxon law put on taking a man's life. Which meaning Godric meant is not yet clear.


End file.
